


I Hate My Life

by JET_Playin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, writer!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JET_Playin/pseuds/JET_Playin
Summary: Draco reflects on his life.





	I Hate My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely scarshavestories for the beta!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or its characters.

I hate my life. 

I've begun so many pieces of writing with that very line, from my first journal entry as a child, to the countless stories I've attempted to write throughout my life. It's such a cliché, I understand, yet they are the words that get me moving. They begin the flow of words and ideas, and from them stems a wealth of inspiration. 

You see, in order to say those words, with the depth of feeling and meaning with which I infuse them, one must understand the perspective. A teenager can say the words with gusto - with the fervor of youth and a self centric viewpoint, and I was no exception. 

However, I am no longer a teenager. I'm a man of twenty-eight years. My education is complete, so to speak, my responsibilities are that of an adult; yet my experiences, my choices, still haunt me. I look back on my life and I wonder what might have been different. 

If I had chosen to say something when I could still have been helped. If I had trusted another when I couldn't bear the weight of my reality. Would I have ended up in that bathroom, bleeding on the floor in that cold, desolate room? Would I have felt that unbearable heat, the flames that scorched my soul despite leaving no visible mark on my body? Would I have witnessed the horrors that to this day steal my sleep and colour my actions?

Would I have accepted the mark, the brand that forever labelled me a traitor? 

My hatred for this life is not arbitrary. It doesn't come from feeling misunderstood or out of place, as every human does at some point. It comes from the very real, abhorrent experiences I've lived through. The madman in my home, poisoning my mind from the onset of my life, and the madman who came later. The values I was taught and the choices I made based on those values.

I sometimes wish I could go back, make those choices again, choose better. Choose correctly. 

Some might say that those choices weren't mine to make, but I disagree. It makes others more comfortable, when they interact with me, to believe that every action I took was a direct result of how I was raised, what I was taught. They aren’t wrong, but nothing in life is that simple. I don't hold it against them, but neither do I envy their blissful ignorance. 

If I could not accept that those were my choices, the fact that I made them, what kind of person would I be, now? I tortured children; what does it matter if that was at the orders of scoundrels? Enough of me chose to do it. I condemned an innocent animal to death; is it really so important that I didn’t understand the ramifications of that action? In that moment, enough of me wanted to exert my power. I am responsible for the death of a good man; who cares that I didn’t cast the curse that took his life? My mission, regardless of why I accepted it, drove us to that place, to that moment. Those were my choices and excusing them as someone else's does me, and everyone affected by them, a disservice: They're my lessons to learn, and I worked and suffered to learn them; to learn from them. 

You may ask, “If you’ve accepted responsibility and made peace with it, why do you hate your life?” It’s a fair question. If I may be frank, even though I strive to avoid making those mistakes again, I have to live with the knowledge that I made them, in the first place. I know the monster that I can become, and I know what it would take to create him again.

But, those who remain in my life refuse to understand. I believe they could, if they were to try. They won’t do that. The world reads my words and begs for more, yet cannot see the reality hidden in them. My mother still dotes, Pansy refuses to leave, Blaise remains his charming, boisterous self, Greg still follows me around and, sometimes, I even think I see him waiting for direction. 

And Potter.

Potter is, as he’s always been, the very worst. We fight fairly constantly, but he never uses my past against me. He looks at me with such  _ understanding  _ and  _ tenderness.  _ My stomach roils when he does. He says he understands, but how could he? If he understood, he wouldn’t speak to me, let alone touch me. But he does.

He’s lying beside me and I resist the urge to look at him. He’s too beautiful. The war, and what he had to do in it, don’t touch him. He has nightmares, just like I do, and he has difficulty interacting with people. But he… He’s still so kind, so pure, that it’s difficult to imagine he ever felt the things I do. 

So, how could he understand? How can he look at me without seeing everything I’ve done? He says he does see those things, that he knows perfectly well who I am. Well, then, how can he touch me, kiss me, fuck me? How could anyone?

But he does, and I’m not about to stop him. Because, deep down, I’m still that selfish, spoiled child, making the wrong choices and affecting the lives of those around me. I want him. For as long as I can have him, I want him, so I’ll be selfish, and I’ll make the wrong choice. The choice to keep him when he deserves better. The choice to fuck him when he deserves love.

I don’t know what love is, not really. Potter says he loves me, and I want to believe him, so I’ll choose to do that, too.

Harry shifts in his sleep, curling close to me and wrapping his arm around my waist, forcing me to lie back down. When my head hits my pillow, he presses closer, slotting himself into place. His hand on my chest, his lips on my neck, breathing hot air into my ear. His cock cupped by the crevice between the cheeks of my arse… and I wonder, do I hate my life?

I don’t know what love is. For all I know, this feeling could be it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Remember, kudos are love and comments validate my existence! ❤️


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